


Under the Tree

by cincoflex



Category: Mr. Willowby
Genre: Christmas highjinks, F/M, playful lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:14:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28184481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: Mr. Willowby finds more under his tree than he expected.
Relationships: Mr Willowby/Miss Emmaline
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	Under the Tree

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this ten years ago, when I first saw a taped copy of "Mr. Willowby's Christmas Tree" with an impossibly young Robert Downey Jr. It's fluffy and sexy and like any holiday treat, not too serious. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Under the Tree**

“And soo if you don’t mind sir, my niece will be visiting with us dis Christmas,” Adelaide Baxter murmured, “Yah?”

Nathaniel Edward David Willowby nodded. “Yah, er, yes! That would be capital, Miss, er, _Missus_ Adelaide,” he corrected himself cheerfully. “I look forward to her arrival! She _does_ celebrate Christmas, right?”

“Ooh yes,” the newly missus-ed Adelaide nodded, smiling. “Dat she does.”

For the rest of the afternoon, Mr. Willowby wondered what his guest would be like. Short? Tall? Sweet and shy like Missus Adelaide? He bounced from room to room, checking the windows and waiting impatiently for the sleigh to arrive from the train station.

\--oo00oo--

Miss Emmaline was different from Missus Adelaide.

Missus Adelaide had soft brown hair and dark eyes, a pleasing smile and a sweet laugh. When she looked at Baxter, he always smiled back now, and he seemed much more . . . relaxed. Less stiff and rigid. As if something of the man had found a warm little haven in Missus Adelaide that he could lovingly visit again and again.

Mr. Willowby wasn’t sure why that thought made him a little uncomfortable, and why sometime he felt a bit . . . achy in places.

But Miss Emmaline was here, and she was different. For one thing, she had really big pair of . . . eyes. And long blonde hair that had pretty curls framing her face. And she wore the latest fashions, which were nicely snug along her shoulders and waist. It was a very small waist, really—hardly the span of his gloved hands, as he found out, helping her down from the sleigh. 

Miss Emmaline also had a very pretty mouth that smiled and gleamed and always looked as if she was ready to blow a kiss to someone. Mr. Willowby decided he liked looking at her mouth. It reminded him of cherries wet with dew, plump and full and tempting.

And she was bouncy. Mr. Willowby liked that best of all. She bounced when she walked, and when she was excited, and seeing her excited made _him_ excited too, although it didn’t seem to be just about Christmas. Something in the way she jiggled from room to room made him feel that this could be possibly the best holiday ever.

At first she was a bit shy, but after a few days she fit right in, helping to decorate and chattering about all sorts of things. Emmaline knew about cookies and candles and cards, but other things seemed to mystify her.

Like mistletoe.

“You hang it in doorways,” Mr. Willowby pointed out, cheerfully.

“Like herbs?” Emmaline asked, looking up curiously.

“Not qvite,” Her aunt murmured with a smile, sailing over. She reached up to pin the sprig of fuzzy green leaves and pearly berries, and when it was in place, she smiled, brushing her hands on her apron. “I’m sure Mr. Villowby can show you vat it’s for.” Missus Adelaide flittered through the doorway and off to the kitchen, leaving them standing there.

Mr. Willowby felt slightly dizzy, but Emmaline still looked confused, her face tilted up, looking at the mistletoe. “What does it do?”

“It lets people . . . give kisses,” he managed.

Miss Emmaline looked slightly startled. “I couldn’t kiss that! It’s _far_ too high! You’d have to lift me up!”

“No, no! You don’t kiss the mistletoe!” Mr. Willowby told her, trying not to laugh. “You kiss whoever is under it!”

She went pink, and he was close enough to see it happen. It was pretty, and Mr. Willowby moved nearer, hands clasped behind his back. He had them behind his back so that they wouldn’t go around Miss Emmaline’s pretty, tempting little waist.

“So I . . . may kiss you?” she breathed softly, and he felt her breath against his face. Suddenly Mr. Willowby felt very warm in some places. Very, very warm.

“Yes, please,” he murmured, moving to offer his cheek. Strangely, Miss Emmaline moved in the opposite direction, and in a slow, sweet collision, their mouths touched.

Mr. Willowby knew this was a kiss. A _real_ kiss and not a peck on the cheek, as he was prone to give under the mistletoe. No, this was very different, and very, very—

Ohhh. Whatever it was, it was VERY.

He wanted more of it, but Miss Emmaline was pulling back, looking at him in surprise, that little cherry mouth—that warm, sweet cherry mouth—in an ‘O’ of surprise.

“Oh!” she squeaked, and the sound made Mr. Willowby’s stomach ache. Well, not precisely his stomach. Lower than his stomach. And not quite an ache. More of a throb.

“That’s how people are naughty,” Miss Emmaline breathed. “Oh dear. I don’t want a lump of coal in my stocking this year!”

“Naughty!” Mr. Willowby protested, although a part of him thought that Miss Emmaline had a bit of a point. Anything this marvelously . . . well, VERY . . . had to be naughty to _some_ degree.

It certainly _felt_ rather . . . naughty.

“Yes,” Miss Emmaline decided. “It makes me feel all tingly, right under my chemise!”

She curtsied and left Mr. Willowby standing under the mistletoe, pondering that image, and wondering if tingles were contagious.

\--oo00oo--

Christmas Eve day was slightly snowy and full of good smells and good sounds. Mr. Willowby rose early, unable to stop himself from sneaking a gingerbread man from the kitchen before breakfast.

He spent the day wrapping various presents, trying very hard to stay out of the way, although his excitement was building. Mr. Willowby hoped it would last, especially around Miss Emmaline.

Later, after lunch, he wandered out to the main hall.

Miss Emmaline and Missus Adelaide were clearing out the space where the tree would go, and something about Miss Emmaline on her hands and knees, pert little bottom up in the air made Mr. Willowby feel slightly dizzy . . . as if his head wasn’t getting enough blood.

He often felt like that when she was around, he realized.

She was helping her aunt to spread the carpet, and her little wriggles were . . . mesmerizing. Like trifle shaking in a small, tight bowl . . .

Mr. Villowby,” Missus Adelaide murmured, bringing him out of his trance, “Mis-ter Baxter unt I vill be bringing the tree in a few hours. I hope you and Miss Emmaline vill be able to entertain yourselves?”

“We’ll have a capital time,” he assured her with a smile that Miss Emmaline echoed, looking over her shoulder at him. 

“We could play games!” 

Given her position, Mr. Willowby thought immediately of Leapfrog. “Games,” he echoed, and looked away from her backside. “I’m very good at games, I warn you!”

“Good!” Missus Adelaide beamed. “I know you’ll love playing with each other!”

“Oh yes,” Miss Emmaline agreed, “and staying warm by the fire; I love warming my bare toes!”

The thought of Miss Emmaline’s bare toes made Mr. Willowby bounce a little more.

\--oo00oo--

The snow was falling thick and fast, but Baxter assured Mr. Willowby that all would be well for the tree hunt; he and Missus Adelaide would be taking extra blankets and pillows and a bottle of champagne and oysters along.

The precautions seemed excessive to Mr. Willowby, but he nodded cheerfully; he and Miss Emmaline watched them drive away and then closed the doors, shivering a little at the chill. Miss Emmaline skipped her way into the living room and spun around, as full of the Christmas spirit as anyone he’d ever seen, and it was adorable.

Quite, quite adorable.

He felt something in his chest swell, a happy sensation a little like all the other sensations, but higher up, and somehow . . . sweeter.

“Dance with me!” she called, laughing, and Mr. Willowby did, taking her small warm hands in his and twirling through the room. They laughed, both seemingly determined to out-waltz the other, and shortly, when they called a breathless truce, giggling a bit, Mr. Willowby braced one hand on the doorway, smiling down at Miss Emmaline.

She was looking up, her big blue eyes widening, and he knew without turning his head that she was staring at the mistletoe. “Oh my . . .”

“I won’t be naughty,” he promised, although it was getting more difficult by the minute to do that. Miss Emmaline wriggled.

“Perhaps we can be a _little_ bit naughty,” she murmured breathlessly. “After all, it _is_ a sort of . . . giving . . .”

“Yes,” he breathed, drifting down towards that sweet cherry mouth, “And I do love giving . . .”

And he did. Mr. Willowby certainly gave the kiss all he had, and when Miss Emmaline squeaked and her pretty, pretty lips opened, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to taste her mouth.

A strange sensation washed over him; happiness combined with a sense of urgency, and Mr. Willowby kissed her again, feeling dizzy and . . . urgent. 

Miss Emmaline seemed to like kissing as well, and made sweet little whimpers that thrilled him, her own little tongue sliding against his own.

Gradually they paused, startled by the chime of the grandfather clock announcing it was nearly ten. Miss Emmaline gave a breathless little gasp, her eyes bright. “Oh my goodness, how the afternoon has flown—it’s time to get into my nightgown!”

That sounded like a wonderful idea to Mr. Willowby.

She smiled at him. “Does your gown have Christmas trees on it?”

“Reindeer,” he confessed, “I’ve found all of them except the sixth one.”

“If you show them to me, I might be able to help you find Cupid,” Miss Emmaline murmured, her eyes downcast. 

He lifted her chin in his hand to make her gaze meet his. “I would adore that, Miss Emmaline.”

\--oo00oo--

Mr. Willowby thought that Miss Emmaline’s nightgown was very . . . pretty. It had little pink roses embroidered around the neck, and long sleeves and reached her ankles. It was also very . . . gauzy, like one of the sheer curtains in his bedroom; the ones that let the daylight in because they were almost transparent.

Her nightgown was . . . like that, oh my.

Mr. Willowby didn’t know exactly where to look, because there was actually quite a bit to look at, all of it very nice. Her robe was just as sheer, and he could tell she was cold because . . . well because the front of her was a bit more . . . nubbly.

And Miss Emmaline didn’t seem to notice! She bounced into the living room (the bounces being _much_ more obvious) and pirouetted nicely, her hair down, now and looking very touchable.

Mr. Willowby definitely wanted to touch her hair. And her . . . shoulders. He pulled his robe around himself more tightly and stepped downstairs, trying to smile, feeling that maybe, just maybe, it might be a very good Christmas Eve. Miss Emmaline was standing in front of the fire, and the glow . . . well, the glow was sort of shining through her nightgown, and the sight of her made him very dizzy. He stumbled, and dropped himself on the sofa.

“Oh Mr. Willowby!” she cried out, alarmed, and scurried up, leaning over him, all concerned.

This view was even MORE amazing, and he looked up at her, suddenly aware that much as he loved Christmas—and Mr. Willowby DID love Christmas, and trees and holly and presents and tinsel and cookies and mistletoe and hanging stockings—that there _were_ other interests in a young man’s life.

Interests that desperately longed to merge with Miss Emmaline’s . . . interests. Interests that throbbed and ached, and needed more than gingerbread and milk to feel better. He gave a hoarse little groan. “I’m . . . feeling . . . odd,” he confessed, reaching out to stroke her cheek.

“Let me feel you,” she insisted, and pressed her lips to his forehead to check his temperature. This brought the soft and rounded parts of Miss Emmaline directly into Mr. Willowby’s face, and he gave another groan, lost in the sweet scent and warmth.

“Oh mmmmmmyyyyyy,” Miss Emmaline purred helplessly, as surprised as he was. Mr. Willowby rubbed his face against the thin material, delighted by the pillowy softness of these parts of Miss Emmaline. He nuzzled again, this time slipping his hands gently around her waist.

She let him, giving small kitten-like mews of delight, and after a while, Mr. Willowby managed to catch one of the little pearl buttons in his teeth and undid it, revealing cleavage of pretty pink skin.

This was new, and interesting, and Miss Emmaline looked down, her big blue eyes still wide. “Ohhhh. What are you doing?”

He blinked up at her. “To be frightfully honest, I don’t really know. But it seems to be a very good thing.”

Miss Emmaline gave a bobbing nod of agreement. “Oh yes! Although . . .” she told him slowly, “If you undo my buttons then I must undo yours. It’s only fair, you know.”

“Give and take, for Christmas,” he agreed, sitting up and bracing his back against the arm of the sofa. Miss Emmaline scooted closer, shivering slightly and glancing at the fire.

“How will Santa come, with a fire in the fireplace?” she asked, distracting Mr. Willowby for a moment.

“He comes later, when the fire is banked,” he told her confidently, deftly plucking another button open. “That’s why he has such heavy boots, you see.”

She blinked, and smiled, turning to him, and in that movement, her nightgown slid half-off one shoulder. Mr. Willowby bit his tongue at how pretty Miss Emmaline was in the firelight. At how round and pearly and how much he wanted to touch her and kiss her . . .

Then Miss Emmaline looked down. “Now I’m cold,” she murmured. “See?”

Mr. Willowby slid a finger over the perky nipple. “Poor Miss Emmaline. Scoot closer and we’ll stay warm together,” he assured her.

In a soft moment of hesitation, she did, and Mr. Willowby dropped a little kiss on her chilled chest. And then another, and then a lick, and a nibble . . . bit by bit, he meandered his way along her pretty throat and down into the warm valley of her chest, and somewhere along the way, her nightgown slipped further down.

This was a good thing, Mr. Willowby decided. A very, VERY good thing.

But Miss Emmaline was determined that matters stay fair, and undid the buttons of _his_ gown, naming the reindeer as she touched them, and giggling. Mr. Willowby didn’t mind, and when she kissed his shoulder, stretching out on him to do so, the feel of her was utterly divine. 

Although there was no mistletoe in the parlor, it seemed only right to kiss Miss Emmaline, and she kissed back, with warm and breathless enthusiasm. Her mouth was delicious, but Mr. Willowby felt compelled to kiss more than just that, and very soon they were both happily nibbling and exploring new and interesting aspects of each other.

Dear Miss Emmaline seemed very flushed; her cheeks were red and her eyes glittered in the firelight. She kept . . . wiggling, and Mr. Willowby definitely liked that, since each little squirm rubbed against him and shifted his nightgown. Actually, they also shifted hers, and six kisses later, he felt the delicate heat of her bare legs against his own, and then her hips and . . . .

Oh.

It dawned on Mr. Willowby that they were both breathing hard now, and rubbing rather vigorously, and when Miss Emmaline straddled him, things—one specific thing—slid up----

OH.

This was right and good and Mr. Willowby forgot EVERYTHING ABOUT CHRISTMAS because now Miss Emmaline was squealing and rocking on him and her kisses were much wilder, covering his face as he grunted and did what he simply couldn’t help doing and needed to do.

It. Was. WONDERFUL!

When he could breathe again, Mr. Willowby brushed his long hair back and promptly kissed Miss Emmaline, who was cuddled on his damp chest, her own expression slightly dazed and faintly smug.

“That was naughty,” she whimpered. “Very, very naughty. And it’s even naughtier that I liked it! I think Santa is going to give us _both_ coal, Mr. Willowby!”

“Dear, Dear Miss Emmaline, my darling delightful delicious Miss Emmaline, nothing that . . . giving could be naughty,” Mr. Willowby murmured. “Christmas is all about giving, and believe me, that was the best . . . gift . . . I’ve ever gotten!”

“Me too,” Miss Emmaline admitted with a sigh. “Now I know why all my governesses have admonished me to keep my knees together, since opening them around you has given me such pleasure!”

He kissed her nose and then her mouth, stifling a contented chuckle before adding, “Thank you. I do LOVE you, Miss Emmaline. Even before you and I . . . exchanged gifts.”

She blushed prettily; it went all the way down her chest, and seeing it made Mr. Willowby twitch happily. He reached down to cup one rounded breast, making Miss Emmaline moan softly.

“I think . . .” he whispered, “Oh I think I should like to give you another . . . gift . . .”

“That’s very big of you,” she nodded, licking her lips. “You’re so generous, Mr. Willowby, and I love you too.”

**Epilog**

Finding the perfect tree was still very much a Willowby tradition in the years that followed. Baxter and Missus Adelaide kept their part of the tradition of setting out to find it, and as for Mr. Willowby and his young, nubile bride, Emmaline . . .

They exchanged gifts throughout the year of course, but never so vigorously or lustily as on Christmas Eve, in front of the fireplace.

The End.


End file.
